Stripped Down to Words
by Rendered Reversed
Summary: !Non-Magic!AU! But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, looking every bit right at home here… His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as my vision is stuck on blue, I'm left completely, utterly breathless. Threeshot; TMR/HP PRESLASH
1. Chapter I

**Warnings:** Non-magic AU, very short, forum roleplaying, not very accurate job descriptions or descriptions of anything else really (AKA a bunch of lies strung together to look pretty, like jewelry), PRESLASH and IMPLICATIONS OF M/M (aka male/male relations), unsastisfactory ending

**Pairing:** None, though TMR/HP preslash (AKA friendly friends)

**Summary:** !Non-Magic!AU! But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, looking every bit right at home here… His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as my vision is stuck on blue, I'm left completely, utterly breathless. Twoshot; TMR/HP PRESLASH

**I'm the most misleading person in the **_**world**_** for this summary. Sorry.**

**Disclaimer:** Shh. This thing is really here to just fill up space in the header and make things look cool. Disclaimers are the new hip thing, y'know?

* * *

» **S**_tripped_ **D**_own_ _to_ **W**_ords_ «

… SDTW Forums ►Interactive ►Roleplaying ►Full ►Invitational

… ►**Café Rendezvous** by _ForeverYoung_

**ForeverYoung:**

Rules: …

Background: …

RPers & Roles: …

Note: There is obviously M/M (slash) because I invited Evan & Marvolo… and no, I _didn't_ just make this RP to stalk them and their hawt virtual relationship. _That_, my friends, would be creepy. ;)

**ForeverYoung:** Reserved.

**ForeverYoung:** Reserved.

…

**PheonixRising:**

Evan James

…

_It's disgruntling how _normal_ this day—night—is going. There aren't any stumbling drunkards from the bar a few blocks away, no raging male or woman as they catch their significant other with another date… passionate embraces haven't even started yet—far too early, and that sounded a bit too like a romance novel for personal comfort. _

_..._

_It's not like I want something to happen today, with a certain someone, who I still don't have the number of (thank you very much Jean for the reminder)!_

_The hours pass slowly, people buying their drinks and drinks for others, laughing and conversing at the bar as they flirted freely for fun or for deeper reasons. I vaguely pay attention. All of my co-workers have said that I've really gotten the hang of multitasking while listening, and I guess that's sort of an accomplishment. Useful._

_The door to the club opens again, and it's certainly not because it's about time that _he _comes_ _that I raise my head to look, even though I hadn't before for the last dozen or so customers._

_But all of my denials are blown away as _he_ walks in, button up shirt undone for the first two buttons, a casual blazer on top, looking every bit right at home here. His hair is still neat and perfect, despite what that I know for a fact that it's windy outside. His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as I see blue, I'm left completely breathless._

…

**VolDeMort:**

Marvolo Gaunt

_Club __Rendezvous__ could very well be the _only _place one could go to alone and _stay_ thus for the whole night without any disruptions. It was this quality that had drew me here the first time, as ridiculous as it sounds—seeking privacy in a public place, that is. However, sometimes it is best to step away from the comforts of home, still searching for the same relaxing atmosphere but… elsewhere._

_And, of course, it certainly helped that there was a _very _fine man running the bar. _

_The smooth, jazzy tune of the playing band enveloped my senses as I strolled in. Thursday, hm? Well, it's not like _I _would complain. Legend has it that the best snake charmers could manipulate their snake without music, but personally, _I_ believe the charm all lied in twisting the atmosphere to satisfaction. It was simply easier to do so if the foundations were already set._

_I didn't need to look elsewhere for my serpent, either. He was where he always was—mandatory because of his job, of course, but I doubt he'd be anywhere else _even if_ he wasn't the bartender—and it was a pleasing sight to see that he was already looking at me._

_As if he had been expecting my entrance. _

_Looking right back, I can make out the slight flush of his cheeks, even in the soft lights, calling to my appeal in the subtle sort of way that all attraction begins with._

_And perhaps today was the day. The intermediary chase had taken all too long already—not that I wouldn't be willing to dedicate time to charming my slightly reluctant snake, because I certainly was—and I desired to be rewarded my rightful prize. _

_Maybe a kiss, an exchange of numbers, something more…_

_With that in mind, I unhesitatingly stalked my prey._

...

* * *

"Harry, wake _up_ already!"

He wakes up with a jolt, upper body snapping up with head whipping towards the source of the startling noise. The brown hair, brown eyes, feminine shape and hand-on-hip posture to top it all off immediately tells him who it is—his sister. Albeit not by blood, but his time and affection's good enough to make the label official (that, _and_ the legal papers sitting somewhere in their parent's house cities away).

Well, she's not a burgular, and she's not an escaped convict either, so Harry thinks it's safe enough to yawn and rub at his eyes sleepily.

"But _Hermione_, it's only eight!"

"_Only?!_" she scowls, and opens her mouth to give him the lecture of a life time (not that she hasn't already given him one the day before), but stops when she sees the laptop still open and sitting atop his bed. "It's eight in the morning," she deadpans, "and you told me to wake you up. At eight. Sharp. _Remember_? Honestly, this is the fifth time this week that you've stayed up all night on the computer. What in the name of seven hells have you been _doing_ on that thing?"

"Watching porn?" he answers cheekily, and receives an unhappy glare (not that any glares could be _happy_ in the first place) with a pillow to the face. _It must be one of the two that had fallen off during the night_, he thinks, and he doesn't even bother to try and brace for impact because he probably deserves that soft, fluffy cushion thrown at him anyway.

"Wake up and make me breakfast," Hermione demands before sharply turning away and retreating to some other place in the house.

Harry smiles despite how pissed off his sister sounds, because he knows she'll never stay mad at him for long, and admittedly he loves spoiling her anyway, so making breakfast even though it's technically not his turn today is just fine by him. He stretches, the sheets falling away from his bare chest with no arms to hold them bundled in front of him anymore, and drudgingly moves away from his bed to go about the usual morning rituals.

By the time he gets downstairs, their respective drinks are already on the table—tea for Hermione, coffee for himself—and the stove is already hot. Eggs are set out too, so he knows his sister wants an omelet for breakfast. Harry goes through the process mechanically, mind elsewhere as it usually is according to everyone else, and his sister's quiet sips aren't loud enough to bring him back to reality either.

When he's sure the omelet is ready, he mentally checks off everything else. Bread is in the toaster, plates are set out, no dishes in the sink—as of yet—and nothing out of place. The morning's a regular morning, and Harry's just fine with that.

An hour later he's out the door, coat on because it's cold in the autumn, satchel slung over a shoulder with his laptop safely tucked away, second piece of toast wrapped in a napkin so he can eat it without getting his hands dirty while he walks to the café. There, he's greeted familiarly by a waitress—because honestly, he's known by everyone here because he's _always_ _here_—and he takes a seat at the same place he always does, in a booth right beside a window with a good enough view of the people walking down the street.

Harry likes it here at the Leaky Cauldron, because even though the name is a bit lackluster, it's warm and cozy and he can sit for hours idly watching the pedestrians of London as they rush to wherever they're going on the particular day. He's a laidback type of person, because he already knows that being stressed is no fun, and to be honest being a writer while you're too busy thinking about all the things you have to do later is just no good either.

He's starving, hungry for words and a story and something _that needs to be told_, and he's definitely thirsty too; thirsty for readers and fans and _people_ to pick up these stories and words and be just as enraptured by them as he is… but not everyone gets what they want, and Harry knows that, and knows he has other things to be thankful for, so he's still laidback even though there are things that he still wants.

Recently, he hasn't yet been able to find that _something_ that he wants to cling to, to grab and hold on with and unyielding grip, to scratch and claw and defend and protect. There's yet to be a story that he wants to continue, to write past the point he can see at first glance, to _finish_, truly and completely. Harry knows that there's no point in rushing it, so he still sits and waits at the same table, mug of coffee and occasionally plate of treacle tart by his side. His notebook's still empty, page still blank, but his pen doesn't mind.

If it was two years ago, then maybe he'd be frustrated, but because it's not, and he's already met Marvolo, he isn't bothered at all by his inability to write something down.

_Marvolo_. Now that he's thinking about the man, Harry finds he can't quite stop. The amount of things that _Marvolo_ is to him is… _innumerable_. And it's sort of sad, because he doesn't know the man past the brilliantly expressive, miraculous story weaver on the net, but then again perhaps it's better that way. Through the anonymity of the Internet, they unconsciously share themselves more than they expect they're sharing, and it's _that_, that key detail that lets them be as free and light and _true_ as they are.

_Marvolo_ is only a pseudonym, of course, but so is _Evan_. Despite that, Harry freely admits his… attachment. He gives his friend a special spot in his mind, reserved because Marvolo's a secret that isn't a _secret_, so to say, but rather just someone he prefers to keep all to himself.

With Marvolo, it's so incredibly easy to express himself. It hardly takes any effort at all to spin story after story, dialogue after dialogue, word after _word_, because Marvolo makes it easy to go with the flow. Coaxing the story to create itself isn't something Harry has to do, as long as he's with Marvolo, and that's why Harry stays up so late that it becomes early—just a few minutes, just an hour or so more, just a _bit_ longer with his friend and indirect muse is worth it.

And it doesn't matter if Harry _technically_ isn't Harry when they do stay up. Harry becomes Evan the bartender, or Evan the orphan. He's Evan the Earl, Evan the jealous lover, Evan the evil mastermind, Evan the best friend. To Marvolo, he becomes the father, the lover, the rival, the son, the brother, the enemy—_everything_. They're a duo, after all, and on the nights where the furious tapping of the keyboard is the only sound they can dare to make, everything else disappears except for the story.

Together, they effortlessly roleplay, and Harry can't bother to tear himself away. They write in first person, second person, third person—hell, once they tried to write as _each other_.

There's something addicting about being whatever the situation calls for, to write on the spur of the moment as someone _else_ influences every single word that flows from your fingers. And, though it's obvious he's probably none of the things that he plays as, Harry finds that he's written more about himself by roleplaying than he could in an autobiography.

He wonders if Marvolo feels the same way.

When he leaves the café, he hasn't gotten anything done, but Harry thinks it doesn't really matter, because he can feel it. He feels the stirring of something coming, of something that will happen soon, of something that brings change and possibly the start of the next story. His body is already tense with anticipation—_yes_, something's going to happen soon.

Harry figures it's still perfectly fine to relax. Worrying is troublesome, after all, and if he worries too much his opportunity will slip away past his notice.

_...Eventually_…

* * *

The way Tom works is like how a clock works. He does things the same way over and over, not for the rhythm or the adoption of a habit that he can't get rid of, but because he knows that, in the end, it's the most efficient way to get things done. And Tom likes efficiency.

From when he wakes up to how he likes his meals and does his job, Tom has worked everything out so it all works well together. He knows himself better than most people can claim about themselves, so he's confident that his way is _the_ way, at least when it's about himself. So he works like a machine: deft, nimble, consistent… _precise_.

And this is why all the directors he works with love him. This is why many of his co-workers envy him. This is why he's on top.

Because in the film industry, where things are hectic and unexpected obstacles are all part of the job, someone with a steady pace like Tom is gold. And he knows. He _always_ does.

So when he wakes up still tired with a slight ache all over because of whatever position he fell asleep in, Tom ignores it—as per usual—and doesn't bother lazing around in bed. He can't afford it, and he needs his breakfast and coffee before he kills his manager and takes a vacation.

Actors don't _get_ vacations. Not like those in the office can. Tom can't schedule a week off because he has enough hours and the work has been slow—no, he always has to get himself out there, keep the eyes on him, make sure no one is able to wrestle away the throne he sits upon. There's no real rest, and that's why he thrives in this type of environment.

As he sips his coffee and eats his eggs, he wonders what would have happened had he not given up writing.

Though, saying he had "given up" is incorrect. Tom doesn't like messing up his terms or butchering his meaning—well, occasionally he does but that's completely on purpose, and only when he has all the cards in his hand—not only is it amateur, it's _inefficient_. So Tom mentally corrects himself, because he hasn't stopped writing.

Technically.

In fact, he tries to write every night, though sometimes it's an impossibility due to his schedule. He doesn't write to keep up the practice, doesn't write because it's lethargic, and Tom certainly doesn't do it because he's holding out and waiting until he can switch careers. No, he writes for Evan.

And that was the key difference between who he was then, and who he is now.

Tom admits he doesn't know Evan that well. Well, he does, but not in the usual way. He doesn't know Evan's favorite color, doesn't know his favorite kind of food, doesn't know what he does for a living and doesn't know his preferred hobby—though he can assume it's writing.

Tom doesn't know Evan that way. After all, the only way they communicate is online. He doubts Evan's even had a passing thought in sharing all of that information with him. But there's something about the man—so he assumes it to be—that's utterly fascinating. Something that he can't pull away from. The way Evan writes makes him pause mid-paragraph, because he _needs_ that moment to admire the way all of his thoughts were blown away to leave only the story. But Tom doesn't even want to stop; he wants to read to the end and _then_ give Evan his due praise, but it takes awhile for his mind to catch up and by that time he's already taken his pause.

Evan writes like he's breathing, and his breath touches every word, every letter that he spins, gifting life and even a bit more to it. And it's not even about his writing style or how he uses his technical skills. No, it's because when Evan _really_ gets going, Tom can catch a glimpse of who's behind the words, who's writing and who's begging for the story to be passed on.

It's wonderful and it's scary and Tom's hopelessly addicted.

But it only happens when Evan's really got something. Otherwise, the writing is certainly _good_, but not awe-inspiring. Tom doesn't mind either way, because while half of him is captured by the story they're making, the other half is consume with _his part_. _His role_. It was like acting, except with words on a page and to be honest, Tom feels like he found his place there. Because it isn't a job or seen by the professionals in the field, he can fully immerse himself in what he's doing instead of worrying about… the extra.

And it's perfect.

* * *

**So... Hi. I'll just, y'know, drop this off here... nice and easy... not like those delivery guys who throw packages at your door.**

**Err, I mean, "Deliver-"**

**Sorry. Not that either.**

**Uh, enjoy... and drop a review on your way out?**

**Sincerely,**

**R.R.**


	2. Chapter II

**Warnings:** Non-magic AU, very short, forum roleplaying, not very accurate job descriptions or descriptions of anything else really (AKA a bunch of lies strung together to look pretty, like jewelry), PRESLASH and IMPLICATIONS OF M/M (aka male/male relations), unsastisfactory ending

**Pairing:** None, though TMR/HP preslash (AKA friendly friends)

**Summary:** !Non-Magic!AU! But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, looking every bit right at home here… His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as my vision is stuck on blue, I'm left completely, utterly breathless. threeshot; TMR/HP PRESLASH

**I'm the most misleading person in the **_**world**_** for this summary. Sorry.**

**Also, most misleading person for the first chapter, because this fic isn't really about RPing at all. That's more of a side thing, y'know?** Okay I'll shut up now.

**Disclaimer:** Shh. This thing is really here to just fill up space in the header and make things look cool. Disclaimers are the new hip thing, y'know?

* * *

**T**hey meet in a coffee shop.

It's not the usual one that Harry visits, nor is it the one recommended by Tom's manager, but by one little whim of fate they end up next to the other in a rather long line, and that's all that needs to be done. Because the first meeting is _always_ thoughtless, always a mystery, always something to look back on and wonder how it _works_. How it _had_ worked.

And it's no different for Harry and Tom.

Harry gets his drink with minimal problems, and so does Tom. They unknowingly wait beside each other before then, and when they both fetch their respective doses of caffeine, it's only to turn around and see a full house with hardly a seat left. Or, well, more like _one table._

They both move in the same direction, and only realize it a second afterwards that they're probably heading to the same table. Harry frowns because he just _knew_ he should've gone to his usual place, where the coffee isn't as good but at least there's not as many patrons so it's nice and easy and the chatter is soothing instead of excessive. Tom scowls because he was given time for a break, a _real_ break, not one of those fifteen minute runs where people rush to get him what he needs before there's no time to consume or use said items, and now he can't sit in one place at his leisure.

They both move towards the door to leave and allow the other the spot, but again realize what each other is doing and finally turn to look at each other.

"You can have it," Harry offers, "I'll just run down to my usual place. At least it's a bit roomier there."

"It's fine," Tom waves off, because he never likes owing people things, "I have to go back to work in an hour anyway. There's a couple things I need to get done beforehand as well, so the table is yours."

But as much as they want the table, they're also completely open to letting the other have it with minimal argument, and it sort of leaves them in an awkward state of waiting for the other to say a quick "thank you" before taking the offer and bidding goodbye. Each expecting the same thing, it doesn't happen.

"We could share, if you like…? I just wanted a spot to drink my coffee."

Harry is the one to offer again, and Tom is the one to accept it.

They sit down, and it's sort of odd because they're both strangers with a shared idea and desire, but eventually it's their respective drink that calms them, and then the awkward atmosphere is only because they both completely missed the chance to ask for the other's name—out of politeness, of course. Even if they're not looking for conversation, it's rude to ignore the other person, especially when sharing, so most could say it's expected when Harry bites his lip and Tom glances at the shop instead of the person across from him.

Tom is, though somewhat uncomfortable in his realization, accepting of the fact that he'll consume his caffeine in this strange situation, since he'll probably never see the other man again, and the whole day would just be another tick off the list. He chooses not to make conversation, and neither does Harry.

When they finish wasting away a good amount of time, Tom stands first, because he needs to get back to work and it's rude, insulting and most of all _inefficient_ to be late, so it proves simple logic to be the first to leave.

Harry debates, and nibbles on his lip in that odd habit he can never find it in himself to break, even though it's given him split lips and exasperated looks from Hermione before. Tom's walking away from the table by the time he can bring himself to say, "I'm Harry Potter," in a soft, unimposing tone, which he hopes deep down that it'll drown in the noise of the shop so the stranger he shared a table with doesn't hear.

But Tom has always had sharp hearing, and so he turns his head to look behind his shoulder with the corner of his eye and says, clearer though still in no attempt to be heard over the rowdy din, "Tom Riddle." And then he walks away and nothing mildly interesting at all happens the rest of the day.

But back at the hotel when it's late and he's just finished his usual shower after work, Tom thinks back and wonders why he even chose to give his real name. His stage name is William Ferrin, and though it can be argued that he didn't say such to a stranger because obviously that would attract attention he didn't want or need, he hasn't used his real name in awhile. _And_, though he didn't particularly care for it, the truth is some sort of sacred to him like a private memory that people think back on every ten or so years that they've never told anyone about—not on purpose, but just because it turned out that way, and, well, they continue the trend because it had slowly become something personal to them.

It's the name his mother gave him, after all—a woman who he held no affection or loathing for. He doesn't know his father, didn't bother to search him up even though they shared birth names, and isn't going to start now.

"Harry Potter," Tom murmurs, just to try it out and get a feel for how it rolls off the tongue. He doesn't know why his brain bothered to remember it, and he doesn't get a feeling like it's particularly important at all. It's unfamiliar, so probably isn't something he's heard in his industry, and therefore most likely not worth his time or effort.

But the name sticks, impossibly so, sitting at the back of his mind because it just has that _sound_ to it. Harry Potter isn't an _uncommon_ name, not in the least, but there is something…

Some quality of it, Tom supposes, that makes such a name so ordinary, so unspectacular, so _inconspicuous_ that, when combined with the stranger who he had met earlier that day, something _memorable._

Tom gives credit where credit is due. The man was decent looking, perhaps with a bit more effort could look as imposing as an actor on screen, and that is as big of a compliment he's willing to give. But he's always been good at observing people, and Tom knows that even if he's not thinking about it, there was probably some physical aspect of the man that gave _some_ sort of impression on his mind. Perhaps—perhaps it was his eyes.

_Green—a striking jade that was nothing like the cold and hard stone except for unpredictability of color._

There's always a story in jade. A story of nothing, a story of _something_. And maybe that's the connection of Harry Potter—everyone has a story, but this man in question has eyes that hint at a particularly interesting one. That's all. That's it. Mystery solved.

Tom goes to sleep content, pictures blurring and smudging into words fluttering beneath his eyelids, teasing with their fairy touch to disappear in the morning.

…_And I'm left completely, utterly breathless…_

* * *

**I**t's strange how things work out. For Tom, life goes on. For Harry, well, he's hit with the biggest burst of inspiration that he's ever had, and his world stops as he spends day and night almost _obsessively_ ironing out the details and putting together some sort of skeleton and plan. He knows he has a good one in his hand, ready to be sculpted so beautifully and brought to life that he's shaking in anticipation.

He knows this feeling. It's familiar and warm and comforting, like a big broken-in sweater worn during the winter as you snuggle up with a blanket and a warm cup of tea. It's the best feeling in the world, or _will be_, and Harry's determined to feel that satisfaction, so he salts his street and cleans the snow off his driveway, all because he knows that he'll _eventually_ make it back inside—that he'll _deserve_ that warm, swelling contentment.

Meanwhile, Tom finishes up the last season for his drama and continues to enlarge the gap between himself and mortal man. He gets his awards, makes his speech, smiles, and puts himself _out there_ for public scrutiny. His manager is pleased; Tom's on top and it doesn't look like he'll be falling anytime soon.

You could say that fate _smirked_ the second Harry's book is published, five years after the idea first came to him. It's clear foreshadowing, anyone familiar with how books go can tell _that much_, but Harry doesn't notice, because he's exhausted everything he could and now just wants to _sleep_ and let the story of Voletta do the work for him. It's not that he's lazy, it's just that he's given everything he can and then some, breathed life and passion and all of his insecurities and confidences into this piece, and now he's _done_.

But all of the credit can't go to only himself, Harry thinks, and knows it's true. It was Marvolo, who helped him more than the man could ever know, just by being who he is. It was the late nights of RPing, of swapping things around, of trying something _new_ that kept him going, and allowed him to just _let go _as he pleased. It's brilliant and fantastic and just _awe-inspiring_ what Marvolo could make him do sometimes, and he wishes, almost _prays_ that the man would find his book at some point in his life, and notice.

But Harry knows that even though his book is a hit and he's getting interview requests left and right and down center, that the chances of Marvolo ever discovering the truth are slim to none. For one, his book isn't even in his usual genre of literature, not that the man would know _but still_, the writing style _had_ to feel different, right?—romance, instead of action and sci-fi and all of the things that Harry actually reads himself—and even though they themselves have dipped into romance often, steamy or angsty or _younameit_, something published is _different_.

Because Harry can't give one hundred percent of himself into a reflection of the protagonist. He can't hand over his heart and mind to Voletta so straightforwardly as he does with Evan. He _can't_. And that's why everyone else in the whole damned world served to be his muse for her instead.

But, as every statistician in the world would have claimed it never to be, chance _does _happen.

* * *

**A** year after the book's release, Tom sits in his penthouse, cold coffee on his side table as he relaxes on his couch to crack open a novel.

It's not for leisure. Acting is more than memorizing a few lines and reciting them in front of a camera. There's methodical thought and passion behind it—hard work and _focus_ required to be successful. He's accepted a role for the upcoming, much to be looked forward to movie, _Voletta_, based on and, through a very strict contract, _to follow as close as possible_ the story of the original book.

The name is different, but it's all the rage in modern culture at the moment so Tom is able to find it with ease. It's almost misleading with how cheesy the title sounds; _Roleplay My Heart Away,_ like it was some cookie cutter romance novel for a housewife. But Tom knows it's not—he hasn't ever read a single line of it before, but he has a script and a summary from his manager, and he knows despite the title and the suspiciously simple cover page—black, with the faded image of a blown out candle—that it's so much more.

And it is.

Voletta is a woman in her prime—dare say it if she is anything but. She's sassy and coy and flirtatious, but she's strong and has an underlying hint of honesty beneath it all. She's a woman that fits a man—or at least in the first chapter. Then she's independent, pushing away others with an untouchable pose and an icy, beautiful gaze that no one is able to withstand. She's loud and rude, and speaks her mind whenever she pleases; hardly the ideal, but something about it calls to others anyway, as if she's _so clearly pushing that she can't possibly be_.

And Tom reads as she transforms again.

Voletta is a deceiver. What she's like—personality, attitude, all down to the very way she smiles—is hidden behind a velvet curtain, meant to be slid aside when the show starts. She's not perfect—far from it, as he later finds out—but she's damn good at _making everyone else_ think she's perfect. Her job is in the underworld, doing odd jobs for high pay, whether it's spying or drug dealing or _whatever the hell _she feels like, including assassination, she's up for hire, along with her partner Emrys, who Tom would be playing.

But he realizes it won't be easy.

It's a romance novel, so of course, Voletta falls in love. Not with an escaped convict, not with a mafia don, not with a drug lord, and certainly not with her partner himself. No, she falls in love with an ordinary man, and it's so strange and ensnaring and _abrupt_, in the same fashion that love just _is_, that Tom, who is simply a bystander and no more to the affair, is left in confusion.

But it's not _bad_ confusion. Somehow, this author makes it all fall together like Voletta is simply _breathing_. She's breathing, and so her breath changes depending on if she's running twenty miles per hour or leisurely out on a stroll… and somehow, she meets and falls in love with Nathaniel somewhere in between that. And the readers are pulled along, reading and helpless to stop something that they just _know_ is going to end up _all kinds of bad_.

Nathaniel's not part of the underworld. He's not _part_ of _Voletta's world_, but he's consumed by her, consumed by her use of her feminine wiles and brilliant mind, and Tom as well as anyone else can just see how he's simply _no match_ for her. She's a storm, a tornado, a natural disaster just passing by, raging and ethereal and something you can't help but stop and watch—and the worst part? She controls it. Every aspect of that storm is under _her_ command. She doesn't even need to use her lust—though of course she does to great effect—and everyone is already under her spell. It's charisma at its most fearful work, and Tom recognizes it instantly for what it is.

Nathaniel is drawn in without standing a _chance_.

Emrys watches Voletta's fall. He stands in the shadows, watching his companion's descent like it's nothing but the daily news, and though Tom knows he can pull off the apathy, it's _not enough_. It's not just apathy, because Emrys has been there with Voletta since the beginning. He's there beside her when she pulls her first trigger and it hits, he's there when she makes her first fatal mistake, and he's _there_ when she's at the top, completely unaffected by what holds everyone else in place.

And he cares for her, when he's in a world where caring could get you killed _or worse_. He cares and he trusts and that's why they work so well together. Emrys and Voletta, Voletta and Emrys. They're not brother and sister or lover and lover, but it's some odd mix in between, something _more_ but _not in that way_, and their equality despite all exterior influences is surprising. They mix well, the stagnant mountain and the ever-changing storm.

And Tom feels a yearning pull at his heart.

But it's why Tom doesn't understand how Emrys can stand by and watch, if he cares so much. Of course there are the verbal warnings which Voletta ignores, but her partner does nothing more. Tom can't for the life of him understand _why_. He doesn't think he can pull off something that looks, at first glance, just like half-assed effort.

And then it's like watching the guillotine descend. Nathaniel, drowning in Voletta, enters her world. It's inevitable and what's been expected from the minute he was caught. It's his downfall, and Voletta's as well as she desperately reveals who she is in truth, all in an attempt to keep him with her. And Tom _knows_. The story is sounding eerily familiar at this point.

She's a murderer and she's a spy, she's a woman that's _more_ than a man. She's brilliant, she always succeeds—must, because it's part of the job and the personality and the illusory _perfection_—, she's the type of person that _failure avoids_. And she loves him, so much so that everything that she is… is nothing.

Tom can understand. He knows not all love is the same, and he knows this author, whoever the hell it is, knows so too. Not all love is pathetic, as desperate, as all uncompassing as Voletta's. It could be awkward and ordinary like Nathaniel's. It could be quiet and heartfelt like Emry's. But it's _because_ she is so amazing that love takes it all away. She throws herself single-mindedly into what she does, and uses just the same tactic with love, much to her downfall. She is so _above_, that she cannot possibly love without being _pulled down_. To Nathaniel.

And Nathaniel rejects her. And leaves. And Voletta lets him.

Emrys is the one to end it. He cannot leave Nathaniel alive with the knowledge that he has, and kills him. Voletta, distraught, plans her betrayal with such calm and serenity that it's almost impossible to believe her lover died. Her planning is meticulous, everything considered, everything requiring _perfection_, because Emrys is no amateur and if there's _one mistake_, he'll catch it. Especially if it's hers. And because Voletta is a deceiver by nature, a wild card, a _true_ blank canvas, she plays her own part in a hundredth centimeter of uncertainty. She laughs, she cries, she converses, _all_ with Emrys, acting like nothing is wrong, even when she's drunk as fuck and completely out of it in one of the most nerve wrecking scenes of the book.

It's terrible and frightening and Tom can't help but respect the woman, fictional as she may be. From his upbringing he can recognize how much it takes, to live every moment _planning_ and _performing_, to executing something so brilliantly sane many mistake it for insanity. He's climbed from the bottom, _literally_ from the slums, and Voletta's actions remind him of his own.

But it's Emrys that wins, because while Voletta is the storm, _he_ is the mountain. He withstands the immediate wind, lightning, _rage_, and he _knows_ her like the back of his hand. It's such utter mind fuck that Tom is captivated when, right after Voletta is caught after her stereotypical villainous rant (that includes several casual apologies, but oh, it's _really_ what she has to do, in memory of Nathaniel, _her_ Nathaniel, and her partner would understand, right? They had that sort of relationship, certainly), _Emrys_ proceeds to explain in great detail how _he_ plotted _her_ death, each major point defeating one of her own, canceling it out, utterly _nullifying_ whatever she did.

He gives her a merciless death, just as _his partner_ should receive. That is everything his affection for her can gift.

Tom wonders how the hell he can pull it off, _how_ will he pull it off. Then he snorts and shakes his head, because whoever the actress playing Voletta is… well, she'll be in for it.

Because even though it's not his script, the book is _the _book, and the author wants to preserve it as much as possible. Tom can see why. He'd want to too—it's nudging close somewhere in his chest to his heart, as if to search for some hidden memory within the deep recesses. So instead of first taking inspiration from what he reads, what he _will_ read at the actor's reading, he tries to find himself in the novel, searching for who Emrys really is by using whatever is said and left _unsaid_.

He wants to do it justice, and he realizes with a sudden revelation at 3 AM four cups of coffee in, that this time it wasn't about his pride as an actor. It wasn't about the fact that this was his _job_. And he looks back at the book again, flips it open to a random page, and reads a paragraph.

The writing is familiar, but Tom can't place a name, or even a finger to _where_ he first read it.

He stays up until morning, mind on Voletta, Nathaniel, Emrys… and the mysterious author.

* * *

**I**t comes to him one night when he's just finished a round of RPing with Evan, and they're just chatting and joking around and right then and there, half between a sentence and half a centimeter away from pressing a comma, it hits him.

Tom thinks it was more like a slap to the face.

_Evan_. It's _Evan's_ handwriting, the beautiful prose that spills out of his cursor when his friend _really_ got going, and Tom almost laughs because he hadn't recognized it earlier. It's stupid and ridiculous and _how_—_how _could he not figure out that it was _Evan_?!

But maybe he isn't stupid and… late. Tom wants to confirm it, so he asks Evan straight up and, when the strings of periods signal an abnormally long ellipsis as well as hesitation from the other, it's a bit obvious.

The _Yeah. O_O_ _how'd you know?_ is really just for his ego.

**VolDeMort: **I recognized your writing style. Didn't realize you were published at first, so was confused.

**PheonixRising:** …Oh xD. I thought you saw the dedication.

**PheonixRising:** Uh, forget what I just mentioned. Sorry.

**VolDeMort:** What? What does that have to do with it?

**PheonixRising:** x_x… forget it. And I swear to God if you own the book, _don't look damn it!_ …Then again, I don't think you're the type to own romance novels anyways…

**VolDeMort: **Seriously, _Roleplay My Heart Away_? What kind of cheese were you eating when you thought of that title?

**PheonixRising:** _Shut up._

After they bid each other goodnight, Tom reaches for the book sitting on his coffee table. He flips to the very front, which he usually skips, and then flips another two blank pages to reach the _dedications_. It's a short list, as most are, but a name catches his eye.

_For Marvolo Gaunt, for being my ultimate inspiration even if you didn't (and still don't!) know it. I wish I could have given you a happier ending—but you wouldn't have liked that, would you?_

Tom closes the book and almost smirks. He idly wonders what it'll be like, meeting Evan for the first time two days from tomorrow.

* * *

**Almost done! One more chapter to go :P. Again, this is pre-slash, so no romance, no kisses, no cuddling, etc. **

**But you're very welcome to use your imagination on everything AFTERWARDS, which I won't be writing xD.**

**AND YES THIS IS A THREESHOT NOW! KTHX**

**Sincerely,**

**R.R.**


End file.
